


The Arrangement

by LadyWallace



Series: The Arrangement [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets caught in the crossfire, Caretaking, Crowley gets in trouble with hell, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe a tiny bit of angst, Protective Crowley, Slash Free, Undetermined timeline, but sometime before the apocalypse, gen - Freeform, hurt aziraphale, soft demons who pretend they aren't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWallace/pseuds/LadyWallace
Summary: Crowley didn't mean for the errand to go so terribly wrong, and yet it seemed to be just his luck this week. He just hadn't been counting on the stupid angel getting caught in the crossfire. Friendship, h/c, no slash





	1. Chapter 1

Ninety-eight percent of the time, what Crowley and Aziraphale had come to call "The Arrangement" worked out fine with none the wiser. Crowley would sometimes perform a small miracle on Aziraphale's behalf and Aziraphale might do something perhaps a little more in what one could call a grey area, but still miraculous, to save the demon time. If their Home Offices gave credit to the wrong individual, that was just an oversight that neither saw fit to mention.

However, there was that pesky two percent calculated from past experiences where Things Went Wrong, and sometimes rather badly.

It just so happened that today ended up being one of Those Times. In fact, this particular incident was so bad, that perhaps they should change the percentage to ninety-seven to three.

But that was all semantics at the end of the day. What mattered was that Crowley inadvertently got his friend caught in a trap.

It all started out innocently enough, though Crowley was in a hurry. Aziraphale was quite wrong in his statement that one couldn't drive ninety in Central London, especially when you ignored congestion charges. (Those has been his invention, of course. A particular stroke of brilliance that was still getting him commendations).

The reason Crowley was in such a hurry was because he'd had no good ideas for weeks and Hell was not impressed. He was being checked up on constantly, making him anxious and annoyed, and all around weary. After all, could they really expect him to have a stroke of brilliance _every_ time he went out to tempt and do evil? Everyone had off days, after all. Perhaps he had set the bar too high in the past, though most of his commendations, like the Spanish Inquisition for example, had been happy accidents where he'd just been in the right place at the right time. People were often so eager to do the bad things themselves that demonic influence seemed irrelevant sometimes.

But today there was to be a meeting of Parliament and there was never a better opportunity for catastrophic chain-reaction tempting (Crowley's specialty) than when a bunch of politicians were together. Crowley knew quite a few subtle little buttons to press that could start up a good wave of low-grade evil that could turn into much, much more within a few weeks' time, and he would finally have something to report to the Home Offices.

However, the problem was, to do it right it was a two-man job. Or, well, more specifically, it would require a demon and an angel.

Which is why he'd asked Aziraphale to meet him in a discreet park not far from the Houses of Parliament.

The angel was waiting for him on a bench when Crowley parked his car.

Aziraphale stood to meet him. "Crowley."

"Angel," Crowley replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Aziraphale fidgeted slightly. "I know I shouldn't ask questions, but, all the same, I am curious as to what we are doing here? Especially since there is to be a very important meeting in Parliament today. I can only assume that this has something to do with that." He drew himself up with a slight gleam in his eye, directed at the demon. "I don't commit acts of treason or terrorism, Crowley."

"Treason?" Crowley snorted. "That coming from someone of your ilk working with a demon? And you know me, Aziraphale—terrorism isn't my style. Finesse is so much more worthwhile than the big stuff in the long run. Are you going to help or not?"

The angel huffed. "Very well. But I may have a favor to ask of you in return."

Crowley rolled his eyes, tilting his head back expressively so Aziraphale could tell he was doing so behind his glasses. "Yes, all right. But for now, we're losing our opportunity." He explained his plan and Aziraphale listened. The angel wasn't exactly happy, but once Crowley convinced him that his part really wasn't _bad_ it was just, at worst, _neutral_ , he seemed appeased and they separated to go about their jobs.

_~~~~~~~_

_Aziraphale finished up his part_ of the deal with his usual efficiency and waited for Crowley to finished his. Perhaps it would have been best for him to not be around the scene of the crime, but, well, he didn't want Crowley to need something else and find him gone. Besides, it wasn't really a scene of any crime unless you looked very hard. Not yet anyway. Crowley usually worked in repercussions more than flashy displays of evil. He was a master of quietly tempting souls. Aziraphale, of course, couldn't approve of such things, but he would be lying if he wasn't, very deep down, just slightly impressed by it all.

And perhaps after they were finished, they could go for lunch—or tea, since it was getting later. It had been a while since Aziraphale had seen his friend and it would be nice to catch up.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned with a smile, expecting to see Crowley.

"Ah, Crowley, how did it go—oh…"

It wasn't Crowley. But it was a demon and Aziraphale began to realize that mistakes may have been made that day after all.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the demon cocked an eyebrow, looking disturbingly pleasantly surprised to find Aziraphale. He wore a long trench coat with ratty edges that seemed to have come from Dickens's London and greasy hair. To top it off, he also had a Cockney accent. "An angel, is it?"

"I was just going," Aziraphale said and turned swiftly, thinking the best course of action was to be gone as swiftly as possible.

A slim, grimy hand with too-long fingernails caught his elbow and yanked him backwards. "You sure about that, angel? Because I think we'd better have a chat, you and I. You see, I came looking for Crowley and I find _you_ instead. Now, isn't that just a little suspicious?"

"Unhand me!" Aziraphale said indignantly, yanking against the demon's grip and trying to keep the panic from rising in his chest. He wished for about the millionth time that he'd never misplaced his flaming sword.

The demon only chuckled, his eyes black and cruel. "Oh, no, little bird. We're going to have our chat whether you feel talkative or not. And when we're done, you'll have told me all about what you and Crowley are up to. You see, the home office has been…launching inquiries. And you being here, well, that just brings up a whole new batch of questions, now, doesn't it?"

Now, Aziraphale, might not be the most warlike angel, but he'd been in his share of fights over the millennia and he knew how to throw a punch. Which is what he did, square into the demon's nose.

The demon reeled back with a howl, letting go of Aziraphale and clutching his nose as blood spilled over his chin. Aziraphale kicked him in the knee for good measure and took off across the park.

Crowley chose that moment to come into view, looking rather pleased with himself and altogether unsuspecting. Aziraphale felt panic rise again, not wanting the other demon to see Crowley here.

"Crowley, go!" Aziraphale tried to shout before something slammed into his shoulder and he tumbled to the ground.

_~~~~~~~_

_Crowley was smiling,_ whistling and congratulating himself on a job well done as he went back to the park to find Aziraphale. As he turned around a fountain, he looked up and saw the angel running toward him, a panicked look on his face.

"Aziraphale?" he queried as he stopped.

"Crowley, go!" the angel cried.

Crowley caught a glimpse of a figure behind Aziraphale and didn't get the chance to shout out a warning before the figure flicked his wrist and sent something flying through the air. It hit Aziraphale and the angel slammed into the ground with a startled cry.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley couldn't keep from shouting as he spurred himself forward and skidded to a spot beside his friend. He crouched and reached down, turning the angel to try and see what had hit him. A dagger protruded from his left shoulder, blood leaking out from around it to stain the ridiculous argyle cardigan the angel had been wearing. Crowley touched the dagger instinctively and Aziraphale let out a soft moan of pain, reaching up to clutch the lapel of Crowley's coat as the demon snatched his hand away and propped the angel against his knees, unable to believe that someone had actually _stabbed_ his friend.

Crowley saw red and looked up at the smirking figure sauntering forward.

"Well, looks like the rumors are true after all. Must say I'm not really surprised it was you, Crowley."

"Malebranche," Crowley growled, recognizing the figure.

The demon stopped only a couple feet in front of them and Crowley subconsciously pulled the angel closer. None of this was helping his case, of course, but he would be damned—or, damned again, at least—if this demon hurt his best friend again.

"What is this, Crowley?" Malebranche said, looking down at him with a sneer. "Haster said you had fallen off the rails, but I didn't really think you would stoop so low as to consort with angels." He cocked his head to one side. "Are you a spy then?"

Crowley snarled up at him. "No. He's a—a contact."

Malebranche snorted. "A likely story. But one I will get from you before long. What do you say all three of us take a trip Downstairs?"

Crowley felt Aziraphale tense, and he bared his teeth at the other demon. "Try it."

It wasn't a smart thing to say. Malebranche was one of Haster's lieutenants and had gotten just as many commendations for his jobs as Crowley had, only his skillsets were a bit different.

It seemed that among other things, Malebranche didn't take defiance kindly and simply reached down, taking Crowley by the throat, grip crushing. Before Crowley could fight, he was torn away from Aziraphale and thrown halfway across the park, crashing through a park bench with enough force to shatter it and leave him winded.

He groaned, pushing himself up, having only one thought for his now missing and broken sunglasses and his suit, before he saw Aziraphale trying to edge away from the other demon, clutching his wounded arm against himself as Malebranche leered at the angel. After that all other thoughts escaped Crowley.

Crowley growled, forcing himself to his feet and staggered toward the other demon.

Crowley took a chance and attacked. He and Malebranche crashed to the ground and struggled. Malebranche got in some heavy punches, but Crowley didn't let him have all the fun. He gave back as good as he got until he couldn't anymore, ending up flat on his back with Malebranche standing over him, foot square in the center of Crowley's chest—definitely ruining his very expensive shirt beyond repair.

"You disgrace yourself, Crowley," Malebranche sneered. "Defending an angel? Why, I'd say how far you'd fallen, but I think that would be a little ironic, now, wouldn't it?"

Crowley growled and struggled. He heard Aziraphale let out a pained groan and tried to turn his head but Malebranche moved his foot to Crowley's neck, pressing into his windpipe. Crowley, of course, didn't really _need_ to breathe, but he'd sort of forgotten that for the moment.

"It's fortunate, really. I'll bet you'll be willing to spill all kinds of things if we torture the angel, hm? If it distresses you so much to see him hurt, just wait until we put him on a rack in Hell. Perhaps your mouth won't be so smart anymore."

"Crowley!"

He heard the hoarse, yet determined grunt and flicked his eyes over to see Aziraphale, straining toward him, something in his hand.

Crowley didn't think twice, instinctively knowing what the item was, and reached to snatch it from the angel's hand, swinging up to stab it into Malebranche's leg.

The demon howled, stumbling back from Crowley and giving the demon enough time to stagger to his feet, grabbing Malebranche by the front of his coat.

"You hurt my best friend," he snarled.

Malebranche grinned, teeth yellow. "That so? Well, don't think getting rid of me will change anything. That wound looks like it might be hard to shake."

Crowley let out an intelligible growl and slammed the knife up into the demon's chest.

Malebranche howled, then shattered into ash, the dagger falling to the ground. Crowley snatched it, tucking it into the back of his belt before he turned back to the angel.

"Aziraphale!" he cried as he knelt beside the wounded angel who had stopped trying to rise after he had gotten to one elbow. That seemed about as much as he was capable of right now.

"Is he dead? Or just discorporated?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley bit his lip, looking behind him. "I don't know. But either way he's gone long enough for us to get out of here. On your feet, angel."

Aziraphale cried out as Crowley pulled him upright and then had to wrap an arm around the angel in order to keep him on his feet. Aziraphale was holding one hand to his shoulder, attempting to keep the blood from flowing, but blood, once liberated, never seemed to want to give up its freedom. Crowley was worried. The fact that Aziraphale was bleeding still, let alone at all, told him that the dagger was not an earthly one. It had been meant to hurt supernatural creatures. Probably meant for Crowley if he resisted.

Well, he'd resisted, and he was just finally realizing what that meant.

His own knees went weak for a moment before he remembered that he was the only thing keeping Aziraphale up. So he stuck his courage to the sticking place and hustled the angel along. He could think about the consequences of his actions later.

"Come on, we have to go see to that."

"Crowley…will they come after you?"

"Not if they don't find out who did it," the demon replied with his usual devil-may-care attitude. Of course, that was a rather poor choice of phrase because in this case, the Devil _would_ care; he would care very much as it turned out. Crowley hoped he never found out and the Home Office just chalked this up to a freak accident or maybe desertion.

Luckily the park was not populated and his car was parked close by. He pushed Aziraphale into the passenger seat and then fumbled for his keys with shaking hands as he climbed into the driver's side.

It took several embarrassing tries to get the key into the ignition as well, and as soon as he did, and the car rumbled to life, he slapped the radio off, not wanting to risk a missive from Hell. He did not want to answer any questions they might have.

Aziraphale was curled into himself, slumped against the door and Crowley bit his lip. This situation was probably worse than he was letting himself realize right now, and he knew that eventually he would likely have to deal with it, but for now, he had more important things to see to, like his best friend bleeding in the passenger seat of his car. (On his upholstery!)

He gunned the engine and the Bentley sped off. He did some thinking then. His flat was closer, but he knew that was the first place the demons would show up looking for him. (If they were looking for him.) So it would have to be the bookstore. Hopefully that was not compromised.

He glanced over to see Aziraphale slumping further against the door, shuddering. The simple fact that he was not protesting Crowley's breaking every speed limit rule, was enough to worry the demon.

"Hold on, angel," he muttered. "Don't you dare…" he cut himself off. It wasn't a mortal wound, of course. He had no reason to worry.

He drove through Soho and ended up at the bookshop soon enough. He screeched to a halt to the shock of several people on the sidewalk. He may have jumped the curb a little, but he was in a rush, and they should have noticed that, damn them!

There was an infernal amount of people around and Crowley blessed under his breath and then cursed for good measure. He got out of the car, and yanked his coat off, going around to fetch Aziraphale.

"Alright, let's get you inside and fixed up," he murmured, tucking his coat around Aziraphale's shoulders to hide the blood (it was already ruined from the scuffle anyway) and pulling the barely responsive angel out of the car, kicking the door shut behind him before he staggered toward the store. Hopefully they would look like nothing more than a man helping his drunk mate back from the pub.

Crowley snapped his fingers to unlock the door and hauled his burden inside, making sure the sign was still flipped to "CLOSED". It would not do for a customer to walk in right now. Owners of bookshops that sold rare books were not supposed to stumble into their establishments bleeding from an altercation with a demon. That just didn't happen.

Crowley steered Aziraphale to the back of the store and finally got the angel over to the couch. The thing was, of course, covered in books, which Crowley carelessly swept onto the floor.

"Crowley, really!" Aziraphale protested.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Only you would be half dead and only care about the state of your books." He settled the angel down and hurried to find a towel or something as Aziraphale stared mournfully at his abused books. Absolutely no sense of self-preservation, that one.

Crowley found a towel and snatched a bottle of wine from Aziraphale's stash and hurried back to the angel, watching him slump, still clutching his arm, though seeming somewhat reluctant to get blood on the furniture. Of course; why couldn't he have had the same compunction about Crowley's beloved Bentley? Crowley huffed and took his coat from where it had rested around Aziraphale and slung it over the back of the couch.

"Alright, let's see it then," Crowley said, getting to business, rolling up his sleeves as if hoping it would give him a boost of confidence. He reached out to unceremoniously loosen the tie around Aziraphale's neck, letting it join the books a moment later as he unbuttoned the angel's shirt and cardigan, pushing them carefully off his wounded shoulder. Aziraphale let out a strangled noise and Crowley hissed.

The wound was deep and still bleeding. The thought that the blade might have been poisoned was a worry somewhere deep in the back of Crowley's mind. He wouldn't have put it past Malebranche to think of something nasty like that. The demon only ever worked in nasty. But surely if that were the case Aziraphale would be a lot worse off already, at least one would assume so.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, sounding a bit faint, and when Crowley glanced up at him, he was rather pale, seeming unable to look away from his own wound. "I've never been very good with blood."

Truth be told, neither had Crowley. He might even be what one would call squeamish, especially by demonic standards (and really, blood was _supposed_ to stay on the inside so you couldn't really blame his feelings on the matter) but he wasn't about to let the angel know that.

"You're the one who pulled a dagger out of your own shoulder," he said.

"Looked like you needed a little assistance," Aziraphale returned and let out a strangled yelp as Crowley pressed the cloth against the wound to try and stop the blood flow.

"I would have had him in another minute," Crowley muttered.

"Of course. My mistake," Aziraphale said and the smallest hint of a smile crossed his lips before he pressed them together into a thin line of agony. "Is it…very bad?"

"Nah," Crowley waved it off. "Angel like you will recover in a couple days, I'm sure. Just going to clean it to be on the safe side, though."

Crowley grabbed the bottle of wine, wishing to down the whole thing, but instead he cupped the cloth under the wound and without further ado, simply poured a good dose over it.

Aziraphale let out a startled cry and arched his back, jerking away, but Crowley grabbed his shoulder and pressed the cloth against the wound, settling Aziraphale against the back of the couch as he sagged, eyes squeezed shut. New fury washed through Crowley at the sight of his friend suffering so much _again_ and this time at his own hand. It didn't matter that he was only trying to heal him, it was still one more thing that he wished he could make Hell pay for.

"Easy," he murmured before propping the angel against the pile of throw pillows that were quite a bit past their prime, if Crowley were being honest. "I'll be right back."

Aziraphale's only reply was a whimper and Crowley hurried to find some semblance of a first aid kit.

He dug through everything in the shop and finally unearthed one under the kitchenette sink in the back apartment. It was rather lacking, and had probably belonged to the previous owner of the establishment, but it had gauze and tape, which is what Crowley was looking for.

He came back to the angel and patched up the wound, hoping that the gauze would hold. The bleeding at least had slowed, and he really hoped that the wound would heal as quickly as he had promised.

He pulled the dagger from the back of his belt and studied it. It wasn't particularly dangerous, he thought, though it was forged in Hell, which meant it could do harm to supernatural creatures. Nothing too evil though, so hopefully Aziraphale wouldn't suffer any truly ill effects. His earthly body just had to heal itself. Crowley set it on the coffee table, dismissing it entirely.

"Crowley." The demon startled slightly and looked down to see Aziraphale staring up at him.

"Is this going to cause trouble for you with your…Home Office?" he asked, frowning slightly.

Crowley felt a nagging fear inside, but shook it off and shrugged nonchalantly. "Not if Malebranche doesn't show up again."

The angel didn't quite look satisfied and Crowley wasn't either. He couldn't say for certain the demon was dead, and he knew that if he wasn't this _would_ cause trouble. A lot of trouble. Probably for both of them.

But in the meantime, the only thing he could do was make a pot of tea.

"Put the kettle on then, shall I?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, quite," Aziraphale said and settled back onto the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.

Crowley went to put the kettle on the stove and then rummaged around in the angel's tiny book-stuffed apartment a little more until he found Aziraphale's silk smoking jacket that Crowley could confirm had been in his possession since the time these were actually in fashion. Never mind that, though, it would be more comfortable than the bloodstained clothes the angel was currently wearing, and likely wanted to get out of.

He brought it back out and helped the angel into it, first swiftly performing a small miracle as he took the bloody items and tucked them aside, so that they no longer had stains or holes. Perhaps the shirt wasn't pressed to Aziraphale's liking, but he could fix that himself. Then he carefully helped the angel get his wounded arm through the sleeve of his robe and slide it over his shoulders. Aziraphale's hands were clumsy so Crowley did up the tie for him and by then the angel seemed rather exhausted already.

By then the kettle was whistling and Crowley went to make tea with lots of cream and sugar—good for a shock. He brought the cups back out to Aziraphale's reading area and handed him one of the cups which he took cautiously with his one hand.

"Oh, thank you, dear, this will do quite nicely," the angel said.

Crowley sat in a chair and sipped his own tea, watching the angel revive a bit after a few sips. One should never underestimate the healing powers of tea.

"Aziraphale," he said slowly after a while, clicking his nails nervously against the cup. "I'm sorry I called you in to help me only to get you stabbed."

"It was hardly your fault," Aziraphale returned. "It wasn't directly linked to the nature of the deal after all."

"No, but…" Crowley bit his lip. Damn it, he still felt responsible.

"Come, dear," Aziraphale said reasonably. "We both know our Arrangement is about more than just you doing the good thing, on occasion, and me taking it upon myself to sometimes do the bad one."

"Eh?" Crowley cocked an eyebrow over his teacup.

It was Aziraphale's turn to roll his eyes. "We're friends, Crowley. We've always gotten each other out of trouble—at least as much as we've gotten each other into it, anyway. I don't think that's going to change."

Crowley cocked his head to one side and nodded slowly, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "No. I don't believe it will."

So, truly, it didn't matter whether Crowley was in trouble with Hell. If more of his colleagues came for him, he would figure that out. In the meantime, he would watch over his friend during his recovery, and make sure no one tried to hurt him again.

If they did, they would be sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale finished his tea and then laid down on the couch, closing his eyes. Soon he was asleep, and Crowley frowned even more at this. In all their millennia, he had never seen the angel sleep before. Neither of them _needed_ to, of course, but sometimes Crowley, being of a lazy disposition, enjoyed a good nap. (Sloth was a sin, of course, and one he tried to take part in as much as possible.) But Aziraphale was more the kind to sit up all night reading, probably thinking it a blessing that sleep was not necessary for his personal survival.

But right now, the angel was definitely sleeping, breathing deep and, at least for the moment, peaceful.

Crowley didn't really know what to do now. He wasn't about to leave Aziraphale there, wounded and alone, even though the angel would probably just sleep off all his injuries and wake up to go about his daily habits again like nothing had happened. And truthfully, Crowley was a little apprehensive of going back to his own place. Demons, being unimaginative, would look for him there first, and Crowley really didn't want to be caught off guard. It was probably risky leaving his car parked out on the street in front of the bookstore. Perhaps he should move it.

Crowley found himself pacing before he could stop himself. He bit his lip, hearing Aziraphale's voice in his head chiding him for being so paranoid. He knew he was, he always had been paranoid—that was just part of his nature. You didn't survive as long as Crowley had without being a little paranoid, after all.

But worrying wasn't going to do him any good at the moment. He got himself another cup of tea and forced himself to sit down, picking up one of Aziraphale's books. He wished more of them had pictures in them.

He didn't realize _he_ had drifted off until he was woken by a strange sound.

Crowley started in the chair, nearly scaring himself to death as the book he had been looking at slid off his lap and onto the floor with a heavy thud. He hissed, sure that Aziraphale would wake up in a rage at the sound of one of his precious books hitting the floor.

He didn't though. The angel instead made a strangled whimpering sound of pain that had Crowley's head whipping toward him.

The angel was shuddering on the couch, curled into himself, one hand clutched tightly into one of the throw pillows.

Crowley cautiously made his way through the stacks of books to kneel beside the couch. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale's blond hair, unruly at best, was plastered to his forehead, and a flush had painted itself over his cheeks.

Crowley reached out to touch his hand cautiously and found it overly warm. He pulled back, worry gnawing a hole through him. "Aziraphale? Angel?" he tried again but there was no reply besides Aziraphale's face scrunching up as he let out another pained moan.

Crowley bit his lip, hating what he knew he had to do next, but there was obviously something wrong. Angels didn't sleep, and they also most definitely didn't get fevers. So Crowley reached out and carefully pulled the shoulder of the robe down to reveal Aziraphale's injury. The angel shivered at the sudden exposure and goosepimples broke over his skin. Crowley steeled himself and carefully peeled back the bandage.

Bile rose in his throat.

"Bloody hell," he choked out.

The wound had taken on a dark appearance. And worse, there were dark veins starting to spread out from it.

"Damn," Crowley cursed again. "Damn."

He stood, covering the angel's shoulder again before he reached up to run his hands through his hair, tearing at it in agitation as he started pacing again. This was not good. Why did he think they would just get through this? That Aziraphale would sleep it off, wake up fine the next morning and they would go to breakfast? Stupid Crowley! He had been such an idiot. No, worse—a Wishful Thinker. Crowley had learned long ago that you should never be one of those. It only got you into trouble.

"Damn it, angel," he growled, directing his anger for the moment at the unconscious celestial being on the couch. "You always have to go and get yourself into the worst binds, don't you?"

Aziraphale made no reply but to shudder and let out a whimper so pitiful it went directly to Crowley's stupid heart. He swallowed hard and scrambled suddenly for the knife that was still on the coffee table.

He studied it more closely, sniffing it and running a finger cautiously down the blade.

He'd cleaned off the blood before he tucked it into his belt but at the base, near the handle, there was a slight stickiness to the blade. Crowley very cautiously stuck his tongue to it and instantly spat as the bitter taste filled his mouth.

"Malebranche you bastard," he growled.

The blade was poisoned. Of course it was. Crowley should never have hoped differently. That was just how Malebranche worked, after all. In subterfuge and pain. This particular poison, Crowley knew, would almost instantly incapacitate a demon, and had he been stabbed with the blade he wouldn't have died, but he would have been unable to run or fight off anyone wishing to bring him back to Hell should he prove difficult. Or, probably in Malebranche's mind, even if he didn't.

But Crowley had no idea what kind of effect it would have on an angel. Already it hadn't worked like it would have on a demon. Aziraphale had seemed fine after receiving the wound—except for the fact that he had a bloody hole in his shoulder, of course—and now it seemed to really be digging in, its claws burrowing deeper and deeper into the angel until…

Crowley didn't want to think about the eventual outcome. There was only one outcome he was going to accept, and that was that Aziraphale would be back to his chipper, slightly fussy self soon enough and no one would be the wiser. They could put their fight with Malebranche in the park down as just another one of their misadventures, although certainly not one they would talk about fondly.

However, he wasn't stupid. He knew that something had to be done or…

No, there was no ominous _or_. Crowley wouldn't allow it. That wasn't an option. Not at all.

So he had to figure out some way to make it so the _or_ didn't have to become a thing.

"Come on Crowley, think," he muttered to himself. He'd already tried disinfecting the wound. Wine may not have been the best substance to use for that, but it would work just as well, he assumed. It should have at least staved off infection and surely medical grade alcohol wouldn't work if that hadn't. Obviously because it wasn't something you could fix with antiseptics.

But what could he use? An antidote? Something to draw the poison? But what?

It was obviously of demonic origin, Crowley knew that as a fact, seen it used before on multiple unruly demons. But on demons it wore off eventually, and something told him it wouldn't do that in Aziraphale's case.

What could he use to combat a demonic poison then?

Oh.

_Oh._

Even as Crowley thought it, he simultaneously balked and knew in all certainty he was right. He had to be, after all. It was just his luck.

There was one thing that could combat anything of demonic origin and he cringed just thinking about it.

Holy water.

Crowley started pacing again in agitation. He couldn't get it, though, of course he couldn't. It had taken him years, _decades,_ to get Aziraphale to give him the thermos he had safely and securely locked away back at his flat. And his flat was possibly guarded by demons. If he was caught there, had the poison used against him too, he'd never get back to Aziraphale before the angel….

Crowley swore, slamming his hand against the wall. He couldn't take that chance, he knew it. So he would have to get holy water somewhere else. Somewhere close.

There was a church the next street over, yes— _and what good would that do you, you bloody idiot!_ Crowley ignored his inner voice and turned toward the unconscious angel again.

Aziraphale shuddered and made noises of discomfort. He was so pale underneath the flush of fever, he looked like a corpse. The shoulder of his robe was still pulled down exposing the wound and the terrible black veins spreading ever farther. At best this would inconveniently discorporate the angel, and at worst…

Well, at worst Crowley would lose the only real friend he had ever had and he couldn't allow that to happen.

He swore again, and, decision made, he hurried to the kitchenette to see if there was anything he could use to safely collect and hold holy water.

He came up with a ladle and a thermos quite like the one Aziraphale had given Crowley before and carried them both out to Aziraphale's reading room again.

"Right, angel," he said, trying to steel himself for his mission. "I'll be back, just don't…don't you dare go anywhere— _anywhere_ you hear?—before I get back."

Then he took a deep breath and turned to hurry toward his car before he lost his nerve.

He carefully placed his holy water gathering implements in the passenger seat, opened his glove compartment for a new pair of sunglasses, and sped off as quickly as the car would go to his destination.

_~~~~~~~_

_Crowley stood with his back_ against pressed his car as if for support, looking up at the foreboding steeple, already feeling the holiness from the place as if it wanted to shove him back—like when you tried to push the same magnetic poles against each other, except, of course, there was nothing similar about this place and Crowley.

He stood there, holding the thermos in one hand and the ladle in the other so tightly his knuckles were white.

"At least forgive me this once," he said to No One In Particular. "I am doing this to save an angel after all. One of yours! Please don't blame him for his choice of friends, he's still quite righteous enough. Trust me." Crowley sighed, realized he was stalling and muttered, "Sod it," to himself before pushing his feet into motion.

His feet were already burning by the time he got up the steps. It was the middle of the night, thankfully, and no one was at the church, but it was unlocked. Churches usually were, after all. It was fortunate, because there would be no snapping his fingers and opening _those_ locks. The consecrated ground would sap all his powers for the most part as soon as he stepped onto it.

He pushed the door open, hissing and snagging his hand back as it too burned from touching the handle. He really hoped one of the priests wasn't inside wandering the pews. He wanted to get in and out. No time for confession!

Crowley stepped inside and hopped and hissed and cursed as he went. It felt like the floor was burning right through his expensive Italian leather shoes.

The urn of holy water was not too far from the door and Crowley hobbled over to it, sweating liberally. He gulped, looking at the seemingly harmless urn of water that could kill him without too much effort.

"Just get it over with, you're stalling," Crowley muttered to himself, took a deep breath and unscrewed the top of the thermos.

He stuck the cap between his teeth, not wanting to have to fumble for it later, and edged even closer.

His hands were trembling and he willed them to stop. This was no time for shaky hands. He took several deep breaths and held the thermos out, away from his body, before he slowly lowered the ladle into the water.

He willed himself not to flinch as drops trickled from the ladle, holding it at an arm's length, before he edged the thermos closer to the ladle and began to pour it ever so gently into the container.

Crowley didn't breathe. He didn't blink. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow. His feet were burning against the floor and he hardly noticed. He didn't allow himself to relax an instant until every drop of that water was inside the thermos.

Success!

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Not enough to be sure. Crowley let out a choked off whimper at the realization and went for another ladleful.

This one nearly went off without a hitch too, until a few errant drops escaped and decided to dribble down the side of the thermos.

Crowley didn't realize what was happening until agony suddenly cut across his palm. He inhaled sharply, but had barely enough restraint not to throw the thermos across the room, or worse, drop it in the holy water. That would have been even worse.

Instead, he dauntedly continued, pouring the rest of the water into the thermos as the errant drops burned his flesh and then he simply left the ladle in the urn, not wanting to transport it, and took the top of the thermos out of his teeth and screwed it tightly shut.

Only then, did he stagger backwards before he turned and ran out of the church, his feet, and now his hand, on fire.

He burst through the door with a scream and barreled toward his car. He yanked on the door, slumped in the seat and slammed it closed behind him before he dropped the thermos, and cradled his hand to his chest, groaning through clenched teeth in agony. There were, though Crowley would never admit it, tears in his eyes and he swiftly yanked off his glasses so he could dash them away.

He finally looked at his hand, and saw the ugly acid burn in the center of his palm. He'd been lucky. It was just a drop so he didn't lose his hand, but it still hurt and would take days to heal.

Crowley growled again, grabbed a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand, tying it with his teeth. Then he started his car and made his way back to the bookshop. Aziraphale was waiting for him. He had to get back to help his friend, he couldn't just sit around here _crying_ over his own paltry injury.

He raced back and screeched to a halt on the side of the street, leaping out of the car and grabbing the thermos in his already ruined hand just in case. He practically crashed into the bookshop and raced to the back room, heart in his throat.

Aziraphale was still there, still breathing laboriously and shuddering. There was no change, and at least that was something.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

"Alright, angel," he said quietly, setting the thermos on the coffee table carefully. "Let's get you fixed up then, shall we?"

He grabbed more towels, a lot of them. He couldn't move Aziraphale, and he didn't want to make a mess of everything.

He brought the towels back and carefully extricated the angel's injured limb completely from his robe's sleeve. Aziraphale moaned at the treatment; every movement obvious agony. Crowley bit the inside of his own cheek to bleeding seeing the pain on his friend's face.

Crowley gently eased the angel onto his stomach to better see the wound, adjusting the pillows so he wouldn't crick his neck. He then tucked the towels all around Aziraphale's shoulder, making a barrier to catch the holy water, mostly for his own safety.

It was time. If this didn't work…he was out of ideas, except to maybe beg another angel to come and heal Aziraphale. And that would be very awkward indeed—not to mention humiliating. The angels would be suspicious, Hell would never have him back then, and well, this simply _had_ to work then, didn't it? Because otherwise he was out of options.

He quickly took up another tea towel and wrapped it completely around his hand then Crowley took a deep breath and took up the thermos. He licked his suddenly dry lips and began to carefully, _carefully_ , unscrew the top.

He placed the top aside and then held his breath as he brought the thermos closer to Aziraphale's wounded shoulder.

"Now, I have no idea what this is going to do, but it's probably going to hurt—that's how you know it's working after all," he murmured to the unconscious angel. He braced himself. "Here goes."

He tipped the thermos and a little of the water dribbled out onto Aziraphale's shoulder, directly onto the wound.

He watched with bated breath. For the first few seconds nothing happened besides Aziraphale flinching slightly at the contact of the cold water against his fevered skin. Crowley wondered whether it wasn't working after all, until…

Aziraphale tensed suddenly and then let out a strangled sound, arching his back and tossing his head. Crowley hurriedly reached out to hold him down and glanced at the wound, wide-eyed. The hole in Aziraphale's shoulder was bubbling, dark ichor oozing out. Crowley gave a relieved laugh of triumph. It seemed his pains hadn't been for nothing.

"Hold on, angel," he said. "I don't think this is going to be pleasant."

He poured more holy water onto the wound and wasn't ready for Aziraphale to scream.

The angel nearly threw himself off the couch, body jerking violently. Crowley had to practically throw himself over top of Aziraphale to keep him lying down. The wound was hissing like a chemical reaction and blackness was leaking out, down his skin and into the towels. Tears stung Crowley's eyes at his friend's anguished cries and simply held onto Aziraphale as he watched the poison retreat from his body.

He poured the final amount of holy water over the wound as the last of the poison escaped and the fizzing wasn't nearly as bad this time. All the blackness was gone, leaving only the normal red of blood.

Crowley wiped the last of the mess away and gingerly removed the towels with his covered hand, hissing as the soaked fabric started to seep through the towel covering his hand. He threw them all into a pile in the corner. Aziraphale would unfortunately have to take care of those when he was better.

Right now, it was Crowley's job to take care of the angel.

Aziraphale was limp, seeming to be thoroughly exhausted and he had every right to be after that. Crowley was exhausted just having to watch him go through it. He quietly plucked up some more gauze to gently place over the wound, and tape in place, then carefully tucked Aziraphale's arm back into his robe, pulling it snug around him.

Almost as an afterthought he placed the back of his hand against Aziraphale's brow, but the angel's fever was already going down, it seemed. Relieved that he'd done the right thing and hadn't killed his friend—he'd been worried for a while during the cleaning of the wound—Crowley felt more pesky tears prick his eyes and did his best to glower them away. Demons did not cry.

He reached over Aziraphale, plucking the crochet throw from the back of the couch and gently laying it over the unconscious angel.

He then sagged and slumped down to the floor, sitting with his back against the couch and tipping his head back. It seemed that the exhaustion and the worry had gotten the better of him and he closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to rest.

_~~~~~~~_

_Crowley started from_ his exhausted stupor at the sound of a moan.

He flailed for a moment, breath catching in his throat until he realized he was on the floor of Aziraphale's back room.

"Crowley?"

He jerked around, glancing up slightly to see the angel's eyes open and staring blearily at him from the couch.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley climbed to his knees, ignoring the aches that had settled in from being on the floor for an indeterminate amount of time and leaned over the angel. "How do you feel?"

The angel frowned. "I…sore and…a bit woozy maybe. I don't really remember what happened after we got back here…"

Crowley gritted his teeth, contemplating lying for only a second before he exhaled and instead told the truth. "The dagger was poisoned. Your wound went septic and you…took a turn for the worst." He looked away, unable to meet the angel's eyes, trying to force his voice to be nonchalant but it wasn't working very well.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Poison? But…I felt fine! And…how did you fix it?"

"Ah," Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively. "It was nothing. Don't bother your head about it, angel."

He realized too late he had waved his injured hand, still with the handkerchief wrapped around it and Aziraphale, sharp even when he was recovering from being nearly on Death's door, locked in on it instantly.

"My dear, what happened to your hand?" he inquired, propping himself on an elbow as if he were going to inspect it, the fool. Crowley snatched it quickly away.

"It's nothing! I'm fine," Crowley insisted, pulling the hand closer to his chest.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply as if realization suddenly came over him. "Oh, Crowley, you didn't…" he gasped.

Crowley bit his lip. "It was the only way, angel, and it worked. You aren't dead, are you?"

Aziraphale sighed and a pale hand reached down to take the demon's wrist, gently prying his hand away from his chest. Crowley resisted only a moment before he allowed the angel to do what he would. He knew he'd lose, after all, and he didn't want to lose a fight with an invalid angel. That would just be adding insult to injury.

He still looked away when Aziraphale pushed the makeshift bandage aside and he heard the angel's sharp breath.

"Oh, Crowley," he said.

"S'not that bad," the demon muttered, gave the angel a couple more seconds to fuss then promptly pulled his hand away, standing up. "And I did it for you, you idiot, so the least you can do is say thanks."

He finally looked up and saw the angel staring at him with a look that somehow chided at the same time he showed gratitude.

"Still, Crowley, it could have been far more serious! And where did you even get it?"

Crowley huffed and sat on the coffee table, facing the angel. "It doesn't matter. Look, you took a dagger in the shoulder for me, I drop holy water on my hand for you. I think we're even. All part of the Arrangement, right?"

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't think I like this new Arrangement."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Then let's go back to the other one we talked about before. The one where we're friends. This is what friends, comrades in arms, do, angel. They save each other. And I wasn't about to lose my only friend."

The angel smiled, tired and still a little pained, but genuine. He didn't say anything in that moment because he didn't need to. Crowley knew everything in his heart because it was in his own.

The demon cleared his throat and pushed himself up. "How about I go make a pot of tea?"

"That sounds lovely," Aziraphale said, sinking back against the pillows.

And Crowley knew at that moment, that, come Heaven or come Hell, it didn't matter. In the end all that mattered was that he and Aziraphale remembered their _true_ Arrangement.

Not just the one where he did the good thing and Aziraphale did the bad one, but the one where an angel decided to become friends with a demon.

And the demon decided he was all right with that.


End file.
